


Time Tripping

by VarricTitsrass



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Dark Harry, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, No character bashing, Past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Politics written by someone who has no idea how politics work, Slow Burn, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, except maybe dumbledore, making it up as I go BABEY, technically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:21:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25945021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VarricTitsrass/pseuds/VarricTitsrass
Summary: A jaunt through time to stop Voldemort in his tracks before he can kickstart the Second War sounded like a great idea until Ron realised how much politics would be involved.ORHarry unleashes his inner Black and Ron is Tired
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ron Weasley
Comments: 34
Kudos: 219





	1. ūnus

Ronald Weasley steps across the threshold of Number 12 Grimmauld Place with purpose. The paintings decorating the entry-way walls glance up curiously, fluffing up petticoats and adjusting embroidered Top hats. They are just as quick to lose interest, looking away from the bedraggled man intruding on their home -coat sopping wet with the mid-april rain - snootily. Disdain plainly displayed with the wrinkling of a forehead or the petulant pursing of lips.

He toes his shoes off one by one - his socks are uncomfortably damp, so after some hesitation he tugs them off too - eyes dancing from painting to painting searchingly. All but one have turned back to their individual scenes. Lycoris Black is particularly eye catching, lounging in a thick, oaken chair lined with gold and decorated with jewels, an aging hound draped over his lap looking equally monarchical. It brings a surprising rush of warmth and amusement. As if he’s spent so much time in the dour halls as of late that the unapologetic arrogance of the Black line is almost homely.

He hangs his coat on the rickety brass stand that crouches haphazardly in the entry hall. It is not a Black Family purchase - Remus Lupin had bought it in the early years of the war when the Order had found it's home under Grimmauld's unwelcoming roof - and as such it stands out as rather tacky against the rest of the furniture in the house. Careful not to knock it over, he steps forwards to greet the portrait of Elladora Black.

“Lady Black,” He says, reaching up to run a calloused finger along the top of her painting. It comes away a light, bitty grey and he grimaces. “Kreacher’s been busy then?” 

Inside her frame, Elladora black curtseys with all the grace of a ballerina on pointe, a wry look on her pinched face. “That beast is hardly what one would call a model servant, Lord Prewett.” 

The title, new and unsettling makes him wrinkle his nose. He’s long since given up convincing the woman to call him anything else however - her manner is steeped in age old propriety he doesn't dare disturb - so he lets it be.

As a child the Prewett name was something that had always hovered in the periphery of their family history. His mum was hated thinking about it. She left behind the Prewett name when she’d married his father and, when Gideon and Fabian died she’d let it fall to rest entirely. The only remnants she allowed were their namesakes, Fred and George.

He’d never minded, not really. He was a Weasley and a Gryffindor and like the rest of his brothers, favoured practicality. What use was speaking of a dead heritage when there were gnomes to farm or brooms to ride?

But things change, as they are want to do. And now he’s stuck with a Lordship he doesn’t know what to do with. He thumbs the insignia on the flat top of the ring absently. 

“How’s Harry?” He asks.

Elladora makes a face and Ron chuckles. “That bad, huh?”

“The Minister visited earlier today. It’s put him in a rather foul mood.” She brushes her hands down the skirt of her dress robes as if trying to banish invisible wrinkles. “He’s been thundering around upstairs like a pack of disgruntled Crups during a midday hunt.” 

The description is evocative. He's hit rather strongly with the image of The Great Harry Potter donning a pair of dog ears and running wildly through the forest after a panicked fox. He grins. “Kingsley knows how to push all the right buttons.” The thought of the current Minister for Magic irritates him. “Know what they chatted about?”

Her curls bounce delicately as she shakes her head. “No. Whatever it was caused enough of a raucous that even Abraxas has vacated his frame and he is notoriously stubborn.”

He snorts, pushing a stray hair behind his ear. “Thanks Dora.” 

“That’s Lady Black to you, Lord Prewett.” She sniffs haughtily as she floats out of frame, the skirt of her dress swaying ethereally as she goes. A few of the other paintings look just as scandalised and Ron ducks his head to hide his smile as he clambers up the softly creaking stairs. 

Harry will be one of two places when he’s in a mood, Ron knows. The bedroom Sirius had claimed in his brief stay or the Main Library. Hedging his bets, he follows the hallway until he reaches the end, edging the door to the Library open and - yep. 

He has to put a little effort into shimmying the door open. It’s joints have rusted with age and when they grind together they groan waspishly. He holds in a sigh as he takes in the mess before him. 

The floor is strewn with ratty tomes and piles of scrolls yellowed with age. Echoing down from the highest bookshelves, nestled between heavy rafters and blankets of cobwebs, Ron can hear the whispering of forbidden tomes and dark scrolls twisted with curses and bitterness from long forgotten ages.

At the center of the cylindric room is a table, stretching and impressive 10ft long. It is several inches thick and carved from deep red acacia wood, heavily varnished to protect and seal the swirling ridges. Upon it sits several volumes of _‘Rune-work for the Ambitious Mind’_ and - he inhales sharply.

“The Black Grimoire?”

Hidden behind a pile of books stacked almost as high as Ron is tall, The Saviour of the Wizarding world startles so badly he almost spills a bottle of 100 year-old whiskey over it’s magic-saturated pages. Ron winces when the man looks up at him, wide-eyed.

“Fucking hell, Ron! Warn a man would you?”

He can't help but beam down at his disgruntled friend. At some point since they’d last met, Harry has broken his glasses, one lens sitting precariously in its frame. The younger man, either too busy or too lazy to correct it. The already wild head of hair, sticks up at precarious angles and his clothes are so wrinkled, Ron doesn't think an iron could save them anymore. He takes out his wand, casting a quick _reparo_ on the glasses. “Pretty sure the house is meant to warn you, mate.” 

Harry tips his glass in thanks, the ice clinking together pleasantly. “Probably did, to be fair.” He blinks down at the Grimoire spread out in front of him and shrugs. “Guess since Sirius was my God-father it doesn’t want to eat me like it did ‘Mione.”

Ron makes a face, eyeing the aged book warily. “Better you than me, mate.”

Harry lips pull back into what is probably meant to be a smile but mostly just looks constipated. His best friend looks harried in a way Ron hasn’t seen in a while. Unceremoniously, he drops into the closest chair. “A little bird told me you had a visitor today.” 

Harry scowls down at the page he is reading. Ron recognises a few runes but that’s the extent of his knowledge on the subject. “Elladora Black has _favourites.”_

Ron hides a smile behind his hand. “Elladora Black has _taste_.” He counters.

The look on his best-friend's face can be described as nothing other than petulant and Ron gives in to a quiet laugh. He gets a dirty look for his efforts, followed by a reticent exhale. “How was your day?”

Ron raises an eyebrow as Harry avoids his eyes. Harry Potter and small-talk did not make for frequent companions so Ron knows he’s being very obviously stone-walled. He sinks back against his chair, throwing an arm over the side casually. “Same as ever. Greengrass came back today. Looked like she’d been dragged through a swamp by her hair.”

“She went after the pack of Dugbog’s right?” 

“Ye-up. The one's that had nested too close to that muggle family. Turns out it was an Erkling nest as well.” And he was never going to bloody well hear the end of it either. As grateful as he was she’d made it out alive, Dugbogs were nothing to sniff at when their numbers were high but an Erkling? They were warning stories to children for a reason. 

He remembered the tale of Jimmy-Dee well enough. The tale of a young boy who’d wondered out far past the wards of his ancestral home and into the fields beyond. Enraptured by the singing of the ancient Erkling, _Rimplenag,_ never to be seen again. 

Fred and George had adored the tale. Ron hadn’t slept for a week. Greengrass probably wouldn't either. He probably shouldn't find that funny.

Harry cringes, perhaps at the thought of being grabbed by the ankles and dragged deep into watery depths, to the heart of the earth like little Jimmy-Dee. “Poor sod.You promoting her?”

Ron snorts. “She's gonna need a few more missions like that under her belt before I even consider it, mate.” 

Harry laughs, shoulders relaxing and brow unfurrowing from that sad, frustrated expression. Ron speaks into the following silence patiently. “You gonna tell me what Shaklebolt wanted, now?”

Harry’s face scrunches up like he’s smelt something unpleasant and he plucks his glasses off his face so he can rub his eyes. “I don't want to talk about it.” 

Ron is silent for a few seconds as he contemplates letting it go. Letting Harry’s frustration fester until he inevitably bubbles over and takes it out on the training dummies in the battle room, or worse drinks himself into a stupor. In the end leaving Harry to be miserable on his own isn’t a choice he’s really willing to make. “He ask you to take over the Auror’s again?”

Harry grimaces. “Ron.” 

That tone of voice hasn’t worked on him since they were fifteen and he makes a sympathetic noise. “I’ll take that as a yes. You tell him to shove it?” 

“Like I have the last five damn times.” He rubs at his eyes once more before raising his drink and downing it in one. “Why won't he just leave me alone?”

The question is rhetorical and doesn't bear answering. They both know why. Even now, five years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry can do little to escape the publicity that comes with being the one to Vanquish Voldemort - twice. 

As such: the public, the news outlets, the ministry, all seem to think they have a say in what Harry should be doing now and how he chooses to lead his life in the aftermath of war. 

The most popular rhetoric is and always has been that Harry will become an Auror. Afterall, what else could someone who has done nothing but fight all their life want more than to spend the rest of it fighting as well. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

Ron grips Harry’s shoulder comfortingly. “You wanna burn the Ministry down?” 

It has the intended effect of startling a laugh out of the morose man. “Reckon we could do it whilst Shacklebolt is still inside?”

“Oh yeah. Finnegan too.” 

Harry grins. “Would definitely give you less paperwork if he’s not there to break every rule.” 

He hmms. “Pretty sure the bastard has a list he’s crossing off as he goes. Did you know ‘No member of the Department of Mysteries is permitted to drink alcohol when dismantling runes’ is a rule now?”

Harry buries his face into the crook of his arm and giggles. Ron lets himself feel accomplished for a moment, tilting his head to watch the planets shiver overhead. Grimmauld place held a lot of memories for a lot of people and not all of them good. But the library ceiling is undeniably a work of art. 

The Solar System hangs low, tied to the ceiling with tendrils of silver-sheened magic that glitters when it catches the light. Each planet is to scale, and orbits in real time. The stars glitter ominously, blinking in and out like hundreds of languidly winking eyes of ancients long passed. Comets dance inbetween perilously and, though he’s never seen it in person, he knows that when one manages to breach a planet's atmosphere, the resulting collision is mirrored in reality.

The two of them sit quietly for what can’t be more than ten minutes - Ron mesmerised by the spectacle above and Harry lost to his tumultuous thoughts - before the other man turns his head to Ron. “I spoke to Death last night.” 

He whispers it like it's a secret he can hardly bear to part with and the meaning of the words don’t hit for a few moments. When they do, he inhales sharply. “You _what?”_

He doesn't know what face he’s making but it can’t be a good one. Harry winces. “I know! I know… I didn’t _plan_ to, I just…” 

Ron pushes down the part of him that desperately wants to yell, breathing deeply. “We agreed that was a terrible idea, _years_ ago, Harry.” 

And they had. Ron had made him _promise_ after too many days coming home to find Harry face down and barely breathing, lost to the realm of the dead. A place Ron couldn't _go._ Too many times finding him wandering aimlessly, muttering under his breath to people that weren’t there.

Harry swallows. “We did. And I’m sorry I broke that promise. He said- things.” 

Ron shuffles his chair closer until they are sat thigh to thigh - the screech of wood against wood ringing in his ears angrily -because he’ll never be too upset to comfort his friend when he’s uncertain, but his fists clench and unclench unhappily. When he speaks, his voice comes out flat. “Things? What _things_ did he say that were worth risking your _soul_ for?”

Now they are sat so close, he feels the minute flinch the other man makes and immediately feels guilty. He runs his palm over his face. “Harry, that _thing_ is dangerous.” 

“I know that!” Harry snaps. Ron reaches over to pull his fingers away from his palms, frowning at the angry crescents his friend has pressed into his hand. Harry deflates. “I _know_ that. I do. But-” 

Ron waits quietly, letting Harry gather his thoughts. He massages his thumbs against the meat of his hands until the marks have faded away before letting his own hands fall to his side gently. 

Harry takes a breath. “He - Death said there was a way to- to go _back._ ” 

Ron frowns, not understanding. “Back? Where?”

“Back! To before everything went to shit!” He snarls, gripping his hair agitatedly. “I can’t _do_ this anymore! All I do is drink and read useless bloody tomes all day! I can’t get a job because I can’t deal with being harassed 24/7, I can’t _sleep, I can't-”_

Alarmed, Ron pulls Harry’s hands away, mind whirring at a speed he can barely keep up with. He doesn’t know where to start. Peace has been hard for them. Hermione had asked for a divorce a few years ago and disappeared to Romania to work with Charlie. He hasn’t seen her since. He's not bitter, he really isn't. He'd loved her and she'd loved him, but they wanted different things and Ron would never begrudge her that.

His family was falling to pieces with Fred and Bill gone, his mother tried to put up a brave front but he _knew_ she was struggling. 

His dad had lost his job, unable to work through the grief of losing Bill so soon after they had already lost one son. Percy pretty much _lived_ in his office and Ginny - a professional quidditch player now - stayed as far away from home as she could.

Ron didn't know why, she probably couldn't stand the memories that ran rampant through the burrow like an angry Doxy. The abcence of Fred’s laughter whenever George cracked a joke or the echoes felt when passing Bill’s old bedroom.

George spent most days wandering mindlessly through his store with the door locked and the sign turned to ‘closed’. He said he couldn't handle people being in the shop when his twin couldn't be.

Ron had thrown himself into his work, he was at the office more often than not now. He had known Harry was struggling but he was ashamed to have not realised the _extent._

“I’m so sorry.” Harry presses his forehead to Ron’s shoulder and cries. Ron runs his fingers up and down his back in an attempt to soothe him but eventually he has to ask. “It suggested time travel?” 

The idea isn’t as unheard of as he might have thought once. There was an incident a few decades ago where an Unspeakable had gotten herself trapped in 1402. When they had tried to bring her back, the woman had aged so rapidly she turned to dust in the arms of her colleague. But time travel is _finicky_ , the calculations have to be unbelievably exact or you don’t know where you’ll end up. There is _no_ coming back.

The Ministry had wiped the knowledge from publicly accessible libraries and stores for a reason. 

Trying to steady his breathing, Harry nods, the movement is awkward from where he has his head buried against Ron’s arm, but he doesn't move him. “We could fix everything.”

It’s fantastical, the thought of going back and righting every wrong. He supposes that’s part of what’s so appealing. His thoughts catch on the particular phrasing and he stills his hand on Harry’s back. “We?” 

This time it’s Harry who stills. “I-” He pulls his head back and grimaces. “I would never force you. But the thought of not having you with me…” 

Suddenly exhausted, he buries his face in his hands and releases a long breath. This is… a lot. It’s a lot. They’ve fought for so long, so hard and lost _so_ much. He doesn’t know if he _can_ do it again. 

He thinks of Bill and the beautiful wife he’d left behind and the child she’d lost to grief. He thinks of George who is more spectre than person and Charlie who hasn’t been home in almost four years. 

He thinks of his beautiful Hermione, stunning, smart Hermione. 

They could save them from grief. 

“I need to think.” He says as he climbs to his feet. Harry nods to him, misty eyed and miserable. Harry has become less of a best friend these days, he’s _more_ now. They'd always been a a part of a whole, him, Hermione and Harry. But now... Hermione has her own life now, a happy one and Harry... he’s _Ron’s_ life the thought of the other man going where he can’t follow is almost unbearable. 

‘I need to think’ is what he says. But he’s already made up his mind.

He’d followed Harry James Potter through thick and thin for twelve years. 

That was hardly going to stop now. 

-

They enter the Forbidden Forest under the cover of night. In the sky above the stars hang down from the sky, flickering in and out like ominously. The slowly thickening trees of the forest surround them in a smothering fog of silence that banishes all input from the outside world, leaving his hands shaking with the feeling that his thoughts are too loud. The sound of their feet crunching leaves and snapping sticks twang out in the darkness.

He’s never liked this forest. Not when they were children, being punished for being out after curfew, not when they were teenagers fighting a war meant for adults and not _now_ when they are about to complete a ritual given to them by _Death._

“You alright?” Harry’s voice slices through the silence, echoing out into the darkness. It’s both a genuine question and a means of making sure Ron is still with him. He releases a shuddering breath, mindful of the way the fog snatches it up like a sulky child. 

“Dunno if _alright_ is how I’d describe how i’m feeling, mate.” Harry responds with a quiet sound of agreement. 

“Normally I don’t mind it here but tonight…” Harry glances to his right and for a second - as the boughs part and a stream of watery light illuminates the clearing - Ron is certain he sees a pair of eyes. 

“This place is always creepy.” That gets him a wonky smile, like his friend can’t quite get both sides of his mouth to cooperate at the same time.

“I don’t know, it has its charm.” 

“I think you lost it years ago.” He replies. 

His judgement of time is skew-whiff - like his mental clock is missing a few cogs, the hands twitching wildly on it’s clock face, never stopping long enough to give an accurate reading. But, Ron thinks they’ve been walking for about half an hour when they finally reach their destination. 

It’s nothing special, just a break in the wall of endless trees and thorn bushes and leaf-ridden ground that had framed the dubious path they’d walked along. Ron realises, as they step into its center, it is also perfectly circular. 

“Pretty sure trees don’t grow like this normally, Harry.” The look he gets is sardonic. 

“Death said this is where the wild witches used to perform their rituals.” 

And doesn't that just send a shiver down his spine. “Death’s been pretty bloody talkative lately.” He mutters, eyes flickering back and forth between Harry - who looks strangely serene- and the trees that stretch creeping boughs up high, overhead. 

Harry ignores him, turning several times until he finds the direction he likes best. His eyes are reflecting the now bright light of the moon and Ron shivers. They look like they’re glowing. “How is your rune etching?” 

Ron grimaces. “I can manage an ‘ _Is_ ’ well enough _._ ” 

Harry laughs slightly. “Okay, I’ll draw the circle then. You catch me if I pass out.”

Ron scowls. “Don’t even joke about that.” 

Harry touches his shoulder in silent apology and takes a deep breath. That's his cue to get out of the way so he steps back a few paces to watch. 

Ron has never been good with Runes. It takes a level of spellwork and control that he never had the patience to cultivate. But watching a Rune-master at work is always remarkable. 

He watches with bated breath as Harry’s fingertips begin to glow a brilliant gold. The magic works its way up his arms like tendrils of sunlight painting his body in softly shimmering patterns of sheer power. 

Slowly, painstakingly, he moves - one foot stationary as he pivots - drawing runes into the air delicately.

It’s like watching gold being spun, embroidered into the sky with threads of warmly pulsing magic. 

When Harry finally turns back to him his eyes are rimmed with silver. “You need to draw _Dagaz_ , your magic needs to be tied to the circle or you’ll be torn apart.” 

“I don't have the precision, Harry. And Breakthrough? Really? Bit on the nose?” 

Harry rolls his eyes and takes him by the hand, pulling his into the circle. “Channel your core. And yeah, we’re breaking through the time stream I guess?” 

“Not sure I like how much guess-work is going into this mate.” Ron huffs. But pushing away the hesitation that tries to set in with a bullheadedness only a Gryffindor can claim, he calls his core to the surface. The warmth fills him with calm.

Harry weaves his fingers through Ron’s and together they go through the movements to create _Dagaz_. The warmth of Harry pressed against his side is grounding and for the first time that evening he can say he is completely confident with their plan. 

With the Rune completed Harry steps away and Ron almost follows, head cloudy with the potency of the magic in the air. “That's all we need?”

Harry clears his throat, maybe taken by the same metal fog Ron is struggling with. “Yes. Just- death will do the rest.”

Ron can’t say he’s _overjoyed_ at that. He sighs, wiping the sleep out of his eyes. “Brilliant.”

Time snaps with a flash of green.


	2. Duo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr if you want to scream into the void with me. 
> 
> https://varrictitsrass.tumblr.com/

Ron glides up the stairs of the Ministry of Magic. A mixture of curiosity and nostalgia has him knock one of the loose stones on the left of the walkway. It holds steady. His dad had taught him to avoid that step when he was small, almost fifteen years ago now. And, until now without fail, that stone has been loose. 

The clock above the archway reads  _ 10:00 am GMT. 12.08.1977 _

It sends a shiver down his spine. He’s a man out of time now. 

The inner seams of his dress pants chafe as he steps through the tall, ivory spires that sit stoically at the entrance to the Ministry. Whilst not particularly grandiose, there is a certain level of poise to the room that sets his teeth on edge. Portraits of the current world Ministers sit primly on the stark white walls. As he passes Ron nods politely to the Minister of Italy. Marco Albergoni, the frame reads. 

He dies in five years.

Netted by sudden melancholy, Ron looks away, striding with purpose towards the welcome desk. In the early morning silence, his footsteps chime loudly, cutting out into the empty auditorium. 

“I don’t recognise you.”

Ron smiles blithely at the man sitting haughtily in his chair. “I imagine not-” He squints down at the man's name plate. “Mr. Rosier. I have only just returned home to England after all.”

The pale, thin eyebrows furrow as he rises to his feet. “Indeed? How rare.”

Holding his smile, Ron grips Rosier’s forearm tightly, shaking one and then twice. “Is that so? Ronald Prewett.” 

Rosier’s eyes flicker down to his Lordship ring and his face tightens. “I apologize for my impertinence, Lord Prewett. I didn’t recognise you.” 

“Yes, you said as such.” He grips his cane. “It’s my understanding that I need to register formally if I wish to claim my seat in the Wizengamot.” 

“You intend to claim your seat?” Ron waves his hand and Rosier sits back down. He reaches into one of many revolving desk drawers that dart indecipherably from place to place. Every now and then one gets stuck in place, until another crashes into it, knocking it back into orbit. “You understand of course that you will have to prove your lineage to the High Court?”

Ron raises an eyebrow in what he hopes is a decent replica of one he’s seen frequently at the hand of Draco Malfoy. “Of course.” He drawls. “However, it’s my understanding the High Court only convenes on the Eve of the New Moon.”

“You are correct, Lord Prewett. I can certainly inform the Lords of your intention, but you will still be unable to participate in Wizengamot meetings until you are approved by the High Court.” 

“Right.” Ron says, mouth twitching downwards. “I will return next week then. Thank you for your time.” It’s frustrating that he has to wait. But there’s little he can do about it.

“Of course, Lord Prewett. I look forward to your visit.”

With a curt nod, Ron pivots on his heel, suddenly irritated that he hadn't been more thorough in his research. With nine days until the next New Moon, at the very least he has the chance to research further. Feeling distinctly like he’s wasted his time, he flicks his wrist and his wand drops into his open palm. 

_ “Expecto Patronum.”  _ He mutters. A Jack Russell, highlighted in a ghostly blue, prances through the air and circles at his feet before settling back on muscled haunches with a toothy grin. “Hello boy, tell Harry i’ll be home late won't you? I’m gonna have a look around.” 

His patronus yaps, tail wagging wildly. He paces once around Ron’s legs before vanishing into the air with a flash of blue light. The remnants linger for a moment and Ron reaches forward to brush against them with the back of his hand.

“Impressive. I don’t believe I’ve seen a corporeal Patronus for some time.”

He spins on his heel, scanning for threats in the lonely room behind him. He meets a pair of startled blue eyes and it’s only then that he’s raised his wand instinctively. He tucks in back into his holster swiftly, with an apologetic bow.

“My apologies. You startled me, Lord…?”

“Orion Black.” The man says. Without a wand at his throat, he seems far more amused at the situation than offended. “It was my folly. I shouldn’t have startled you, times being what they are.”

“Regardless…” He clears his throat. “Ronald Prewett. I promise I’m usually better at introducing myself.” 

Lord Black throws his head back into a laugh. Even without the introduction, Ron thinks he would have recognised the man. His black, almost blue hair falls in shiny waves onto his shoulders and, whilst he sports an immaculately groomed beard in place of scruffy stubble, his resemblance to his son is startling.

“I won't hold it against you.” Lord Black reaches out and grips Ron’s arm. “I hope you don’t think me too presumptuous, but I happened to overhear your conversation with Simeon. You’ve just returned to England, am I correct?” 

“That’s right. Not yet 24 hours ago.” 

“How dedicated of you to come straight to the Ministry.” Lord Black drops his arm. Ron makes a conscious effort not to do something as plebeian as shrug.

“As is my duty.” 

“Oh you won't hear an argument from me, Lord Prewett. Shall we walk and talk?” 

Ron eyes his companion curiously. The Black’s face may as well be chiseled from stone for all the information he can glean from it. “I wouldn't want to keep you.” 

“You wouldn’t be. It isn’t very often we get new Lords we aren’t familiar with. You would be doing me a favour in fact.” They step out of the Ministry in tandem and Lord Black sets them on course for the quieter end of Diagon Alley. 

“So your ulterior motive is getting information out of me before our fellow lords have the chance?” Ron says dryly. 

Black sends him a grin and for a moment, he doesn’t seem sure of how to respond. “How straightforward of you, Lord Prewett. It’s considered bad manners to point out the ulterior motives of others, you know.” 

For all his blustering he doesn't seem genuinely offended so Ron hums nonchalantly. “You’ll have to forgive me my social blunders, Lord Black. I've been away from polite society for too long.”

“All is forgiven.” 

They walk side by side, looking to all the world a pair of House Lords discussing whatever House Lords discuss. Ron can’t help but feel like something of an imposter and he fiddles with the head of his cane. 

Diagon Alley is as he remembers it. Ollivander’s still sits staunchly, sandwiched between a brick wall and the old Second Hand store that had outfitted Ron and his siblings for almost thirty years. 

He feels a disconnect as they walk past, dressed in the finest of Acromantula silk and Dragon-hide boots. Shame sits heavy in his chest, a heady guilt he can’t quite shift. Said shame weighs on him, even as they take their seats in The Three Fates and he hands over fifteen galleons for a bottle of wine.

That would have fed him for a month at one point.

Ron can feel Lord Black’s eyes on him as the waiter hands them their glasses. Ron can’t say he’s ever been to this particular bar. It’s patrons lean more in favour of the Malfoys than the Weasleys. He allows himself a curious glance about the room, eying gold encrusted bar taps and crystal carved glasses with the skepticism of a man raised far too poor to be drinking in a bar like this.

Harry was going to laugh himself sick.

“How have you found your return to England thus far, Lord Prewett?” The man reaches over to pour Ron a glass of wine as he speaks. Ron is greatful, he would never have been able to pour it so gracefully.

“It’s good to be home, though I’ll admit that I’m finding all the paperwork somewhat excessive.” And truly it is. Just to properly claim the house Death had dropped them into had involved a nightmarish level of paperwork that consisted of Land ownership, Property rights and - something that had caused him particular discomfort - the ownership of several House Elves.

Lord Black chuckles. “I can imagine. The Ministry and The Bank take great joy in making things particularly difficult. Have you come across any issues thus far?”

“Not myself.” He answers. “I do find myself impatient at waiting however. I’d like to claim my seat as soon as I can.”

“Ah. The High Council?”

“That’s right. You sit on the council yourself, don’t you?”

“I do, the Blacks have for more than a century now in fact. Once you claim your seat it’s something that will be expected of you as well.”

Ron blinks. “Oh, of course.” He fiddles with his ring sheepishly. “I admit I’d actually forgotten that little tidbit.”

He had. The Sacred 28 was something his Dad had tried to teach him at some point, but he really hadn't been paying attention. Both the Prewetts and the Weasley’s were counted in their number. Though, with his father’s lack of interest in politics coupled with their status as Blood Traitors, they were being slowly pushed out in his time.

Black lips twitch. “I suggest looking into it, Lord Prewett. You run the risk of being eaten alive otherwise.” 

Ron grimaces at the thought. He sips the last of his wine, the bottom of his glass click’s against the heavy wood of the table as he sets it down. “Your advice is much appreciated, Lord Black.” He casts a quick  _ tempus _ . 12:46. “Unfortunately I have much to do today.” 

As he rises to his feet, Lord Black rises with him, arm outstretched in preparation for a hand shake. “Of course. I’m sorry if i’ve kept you. Thank you for humoring me.”

“Not at all.” Ron replies, shaking the outstretched arm firmly. “I enjoyed our time. I’d be open to meeting again in fact, if you aren’t opposed?”

The Black’s face lights up in satisfaction. “I would be delighted, Lord Prewett.” 

\--

Feeling a little like he’s been very neatly maneuvered, Ron steps through the door of their new home with a little more force than strictly necessary. 

Peverell Manor, whilst one of the smallest properties Harry now owns, is still a far sight larger than anything he’s used to, with its three bathrooms and six bedrooms. Ron and Harry had opted to take rooms side by side and only actively use one of the bathrooms, so the other rooms sit idle, furniture hidden beneath white sheets that paint every room with a sense of abandonment. 

It’s honestly a little unsettling after growing up in a home where almost all of the rooms were always in use. 

He is hanging his trench coat when Harry’s voice rings out from the living room. “Ron?”

“Yep.” He bends down to unlace his boots. 

Harry’s voice is a little closer this time and he glances up from his boots to find him reclined against the doorframe. “Bad morning?” Ron stands and Harry steps forwards to help him remove his outer robe.

“Ugh.” 

Harry laughs. “That bad? Hang on, let me put the kettle on.”

Ron follows sedately, already feeling a little more settled. “Nah, it could have been worse. Just not sure why I have to be the one to deal with the  _ politics _ , mate. Did you know the Prewetts were part of the Sacred 28?” He flops bonelessly onto the sofa, stretching his legs out with a sigh. 

Harry hums, tossing a tea bag into his favourite mug. “Yeah. You didn't.” 

“No! Coulda warned me, mate. Orion Black thinks I’m a right idiot now.” He scowls harder.  _ “I suggest looking into it, Lord Prewett. You run the risk of being eaten alive otherwise.”  _ He mocks.

His best friend grins with all the sympathy of a vulture watching a rabbit slowly bleed to death. “Ouch.” He passes Ron a mug which he takes begrudgingly. 

“Glad you’re enjoying this mate. Don’t think he completely hated me at least.” 

Ron lifts his legs so Harry can squeeze on to the other end of the sofa, before letting them settle into his friends lap. Harry smiles at him. “You’re worrying too much, Ron.”

“You aren’t worrying enough, mate.” Which is honestly, pretty par for the course for his best friend. Ron is pretty sure that years of Voldemort hiding around every corner like some kind of demented school child playing a game of hide and seek, where the penalty is murder, has really scewed Harry’s perception of what is actually an issue. “The Black’s can make things pretty bloody difficult for us.”

Harry hums in response, sipping at his tea. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” 

Ron lets his head drop back with a huff. “You hear back from Hogwarts?”

“I did. I have my interview in a few days. With McGonagall, actually”

“Brilliant. Be good to see her again, yeah?” He grins. “Professor Peverell.” He teases. “Has a good ring to it.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “ _ If _ I get the post.” He smiles shyly. “I’m quite excited, actually.” 

Ron smiles back, helpless in the face of his best friend's genuine joy. “You’ll be great, mate. You’ve always been good at teaching.”

“I hope so. It’ll be strange, seeing the school again. I’ll even get my own office.”

“Strange is right. You gonna stay on the grounds then?” He asks. 

“Probably. My students should have access to me whenever they need me.” He bites his lip. “I could probably get permission to link out fireplaces.”

“You better. Don’t want my career to end after I’m caught sneaking onto the grounds.” He says airily. Harry smacks his leg with a startled laugh.

“Ron!”

“What! Don’t act like you wouldn’t do the same mate. Whose idea was it to ride a dragon out of Gringotts again?” He questions.

“Shut up that was one time.” 

“Only need to steal a dragon from the Goblin’s once, mate.”

“I mean, if the situation calls for it…”

Ron snorts. “Don’t even joke about it, with your luck.” He tugs a strand of the other man's hair slightly.

They sit in a comfortable silence, Harry’s hand resting on his calf gently. After a while, Harry sets his mug to the side.

“Talk me through your meeting with Orion?” Harry says.

“Of course, mate.”

\--

Orion Black has served on the Wizengamot for almost twenty-three years now and he’s held his seat on the High Court for almost as long. Almost every Lord he’s served with, he’s known since he was a child and has, either grown up with them, or watched them grow up.

He knows each of their politics almost as well as he knows his own. Can predict how their vote will fall before the vote is even called. It’s what makes him as effective as he is. 

Ronald Prewett is an enigma. An unknown. Abraxas is going to  _ despise  _ him. He thinks with a grim sort of glee. He’s young and rough around the edges in a way most Lords and Lady’s raised traditionally would never dream of being. Oh, he certainly hides it well, were he anyone else, he might have gotten away with the farce even. 

He taps his quill against the bottom of his lip. The boy - for that is what he was. He couldn’t have been any older than twenty-three. - was undoubtedly intelligent, Orion had actually rather enjoyed their impromptu meeting. But he is inexperienced, that much is obvious. 

Not naive, no. He’d picked up on Orion’s intentions with an innate ability he would have been incredibly jealous of, were he twenty years younger. But for a Prewett to be unaware of his place in the Sacred 28…

He’s new to his Lordship and Orion is going to get his claws in before anyone else can. 

_ “Lord Prewett,”  _ He writes.  _ “Our meeting this morning, whilst brief, was both enjoyable and enlightening.  _

_ It would be my greatest delight if you would do me the honour of visiting my ancestral home some time in the next week.  _

_ Should you agree I believe there are many ways we can be of use to one another. Both as fellow Lords of the Sacred 28 and potential friends. _

_ I await your response eagerly, _

_ Orion Arcturus Black. _

_ Lord to the Noble and Most-Ancient House of Black. _


End file.
